


A cure for boredom, by Gladstone the puppy

by jamlockk



Series: Gladstone [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gladstone POV, M/M, Utterly Ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4822556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlockk/pseuds/jamlockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gladstone is trying to nap but Sherlock is bored and keeps disrupting Gladstone's snooze. What's a dog to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A cure for boredom, by Gladstone the puppy

**Author's Note:**

> This is utterly ridiculous and I have no excuses. But I blame this tumblr post: http://oxfordlunch.tumblr.com/post/129306306014/paperprinc3-hudders-and-hiddles

Sherlock's yells startle me out of my pleasant daydream of green grass and small rabbits. I am curled up beside him, my head in his lap as he watches something he is obviously not enjoying on the tv. 

"Of course he's lying, look at his sleeves!"

I sigh and wriggle in closer to his warmth, trying to get my dream back. It was very relaxing; I was playing in a field of soft, warm grass, lazily chasing rabbits in the sunshine. I close my eyes again and settle my weight against Sherlock's side. His hand finds my head, fingers curling under my ears absent-mindedly. The touch is delightful, just what I need to help me drift off to sleep again. 

"No! No, no, no! He's clearly not the child's father!" 

I snort and raise my head. What the hell is he watching? 

"It's called the Jeremy Kyle Show," Sherlock tells me, "and it's complete rot." 

I tilt my head and look at him critically. Why then, are you watching it? He seems to understand and huffs a laugh. 

"Bored," he says simply. 

Boredom or no, Jeremy Kyle is disturbing my afternoon nap. I strain my ears and tune into the voices coming from the tv box in the corner of the room. The high pitched, nasally berating tone of the presenter is not conducive to peaceful rest. I cannot let Sherlock remain so bored that he keeps watching and yelling at this tripe. 

I shift a bit in my seat, causing muffled grunts of disapproval from my master, and locate the remote stuffed down the other side. I drop it sharply into Sherlock's lap. 

"Making a point, Gladstone?" 

Yes. Yes, I bloody well am. Change the channel from that awful brain-rot. Sherlock chuckles and sets the remote on the arm of the chair beside me. The on-screen yelling continues and sure enough, not five seconds later, Sherlock is deducing the noisy, angry participants and joining in the racket. 

Right, I am not having this in the middle of my otherwise pleasant day. I snuffle for the remote and grab it in my mouth, chomping down to press some of the squishy buttons. I don't much care what channel we land on, just anything other than that. 

"Gladstone! What are you doing?" Sherlock scolds. 

I am taking control of this before either of us loses any more brain cells, I think. A familiar jingle plays and I glance at the screen. It's shaded in a kind of blue hue and there is a giant clock, full of lights, taking up most of the space behind the two people sitting at desks in front of the camera. Their heads are bent over and they are scribbling frantically. Sherlock has gone silent, his eyes darting back and forth as he looks over the letters on the bottom of the screen.

Excellent. Some peace and quiet. I let my eyes fall closed and snuggle down beside Sherlock once more. John will be home soon, we'll have dinner and then I can find a cosy spot next to them on the sofa. They'll each pat my head or rub my tummy if I roll onto my side on the floor, then I'll go out with Mrs Hudson for a few minutes before bed. I'll snuffle into my basket in the bedroom, stay there for all of five minutes, then I'll jump up onto the bed and nestle in between their feet. Perfect. 

Except now, faint muttering is disturbing my slumber. 

"Pinguid!" Sherlock suddenly exclaims. He looks down at me, seeming terribly pleased with himself, as I try to scowl at him. This is clearly not working. I need a new plan. 

Since I'm apparently not going to get any sleep now and John will be home shortly anyway, I might as well find something to play with. Sherlock's boredom has passed on to me and I'm restless now too, though he has become absorbed again in the letter game on the tv. 

I slide down from my comfy position next to him on the chair and trot off to find something innocuous to chew on for a while. I have a rope to play tug with but somehow I don't think I can persuade Sherlock to join in just now. I pick it up anyway and carry it back through to set in front of him. As I suspected, he ignores it. 

I go back to the kitchen and slurp some water from my bowl. There's nothing in here I fancy getting my teeth into; I avoid shoes (after that one incident I never want to be shouted at like that again), the dishtowels smell funny after Sherlock did something odd and green with them a couple of weeks ago. I don't think we have any bones and himself is too focused on the tv to open the fridge for me to check.

Kitchen explored, I wander into the bathroom. I rub my nose on the bathmat for a bit; it's nice and scratchy on my face. There's nothing in here in reach either. Damn. I rummage around anyway when something long and beige and sort of stick-like on the far side of the bath catches my eye. 

Ooh, that looks chewable! I scramble into the bath and retrieve the stick thing. It's quite thick, tastes a bit rubbery and like the smell of the cleaner John uses in here sometimes, but its weight is just right. It's a little floppy but perfectly serviceable. 

"Sherlock?" 

I hear John's voice as he enters the flat and crosses the sitting room to greet Sherlock. Lovely, now John's home we'll have dinner. I can chew on my new stick while they cook, Sherlock will feed my scraps off his plate under the table and John will pretend not to notice. Then naps, out with Mrs Hudson, then bed. 

Contented, eager to see John and keen to have a few minutes chew time I bound out of the bathroom with my stick in my mouth, tail wagging furiously. 

"Hi Glads, how was... Sherlock? How did he get that?!" 

I stand there, puzzled, as Sherlock glances over to me. His eyes suddenly widen into saucers when he sees my stick. He splutters and tries to stand, tangling himself in his dressing gown. He crumples into a heap on the floor and John can no longer hold back his laughter. 

He bends over, tears streaming down his face as he guffaws and shakes and giggles. He looks to me, then to Sherlock's panicked face, and bursts into fresh chuckles. Sherlock frowns at him for a moment then can't help but join in. I stay where I am, unsure of what exactly is the cause of such hilarity, but I'm still wagging my tail. I'm happy to see them so happy. 

John crawls over to Sherlock and wraps him into a hug. They kiss lightly for a moment, still laughing, and when John turns back towards me and beckons me over I go to squeeze into the middle of their embrace. 

Sherlock lets me, patting my head while Joh wipes away the tears from his eyes. His face is soft and his voice is warm when he says: "Well, thank you both. That was exactly what I needed after the surgery today." 

I drop my stick to lick his face. He laughs again and ruffles my ears. "I love you both so very much," he says, his other hand stroking Sherlock's shoulders. 

"We love you too, John, don't we Gladstone?" Sherlock says. I woof quietly in agreement. "Now, let's get off the floor," John tugs Sherlock to his feet and they make for the kitchen, the occasional giggle sneaking from them as they go. I shake myself, jingling my collar and pattering my paws against the hardwood. 

I look around for my stick but it's gone. Odd, I just had it! I dropped it to give John my kisses but it should still be here, beside the chair. I snuffle around a bit, trying to figure out where it went. How frustrating! 

Sherlock pokes his head back into the sitting room and I look up at him eagerly. He waves a squeaky bone toy that's long since lost its squeak.

"Here, Gladstone," he says, "you can chew on this instead." He grins as I run to him and squash the toy between my teeth. It's not as good as the disappearing stick, but it'll do. I lie down, half under the table, and gnaw and chomp happily, enjoying the sounds and smells of dinner being made. Who could be bored in a home filled with such love?


End file.
